Musical Therapy
by opheliewrites
Summary: "Do the same methods work on deeper scars?" Maybe music can help Harry as it did Hermione. She hopes it can, anyways. [Pardon, I really, really, really do need to edit this! Harry a bit OOC.]
1. musical therapy

**musical therapy  
**

Harry rummaged through the kitchen cupboards. He was looking for a small snack – He hadn't had anything to eat for days. He was not even hungry, honestly, but he knew he had to eat. A granola bar would do. It was not until he turned around with his bar in hand, wrapper opened and ready to take a bite he noticed her sitting at the dining table. That frizzy hair could belong only to Hermione, and Harry smiled at how content she looked, a small smile emerging on her face as she subconsciously bobbed her head along slightly to some sort of tune. Harry positioned himself so that he was leaning against the kitchen sink, and the first real grin (small, albeit) he'd grinned in awhile appeared upon his face as he watched her bounce. She was his reason. His mind without delay jumped back to the previous night when he'd been ready to bid them all adieu; his trunk had been packed, his heart cautiously placed underneath his favorite shirt and beside his broomstick. Almost glad Harry had been to leave the now dreaded Burrow that he'd once have given anything to be in, eager to face the world again, planning to search for happiness with a new found will (a will – willing – to actually do something! It was unusual, seeing as lately he hadn't even been able to pluck up the will to live, breathe, move). As he headed out the door at what he guessed to be around ten, Harry turned to face what he thought would be Crookshanks or perhaps just a creaky floorboard, but instead his eyes when instituted were met with a pair of chocolate peepers. His memory was interrupted by the voice to which he'd become to accustomed to over the years.

"Harry? What are you doing down here? It's only nearly six, much too early for you to be up," said Hermione in her normal lecturing tone (though she wasn't even trying to lecture him. She just sounded that way all the time).

"You'd be surprised if you knew how early I'd been getting up recently, actually, 'Mione. Just because I've decided to come out of my room doesn't mean that it hasn't been happening. Who can sleep nowadays?"

"I don't know, I guess. I've been sleeping pretty well recently, though. It's this music, I swear. It's so _good._ It's perfect. Come on, Harry, have a listen," Hermione added a quick, "You'll like it! I swear." seeing the look on his face.

"I guess if you want then, Hermione," said Harry quietly.

"Come on! Let's go then."

She tried to mask her enthusiasm and say it as hushed as possible, but she couldn't really hide the fact that she was excited Harry would be listening to her music, the calm lullabies she picked. Hermione figured it was just what he needed; musical therapy. It had worked for her, but was that even a thing? Never mind, just get him to put the earphones in. She led him down the narrow hallway to her bedroom and gestured to the bed demanding he sit down. Harry demonstrated the action insisted upon when Hermione quickly stuck the earphones into his ears and hit the shuffle button. The muggle device she was using was strange, just a tiny, bright glass screen that obeyed her finger. The music that Hermione had filled his head with was strange, that of a woman's voice, singing about nothing other than love, of course, because they always had to sing about love.

"I really don't think–" Harry started, but could not finish as she shushed him as soon as he'd tried to take out the wires. He settled on the fact that Hermione would not have him interrupt his own listening to the song. _Fine,_ Harry thought bitterly, but couldn't stay angry. Of course he couldn't, at least not at her. Though even the slightest things seems to set him off present, currently he felt sensible enough to be sure that someone forcing you into something – well, you agreed to it, so technically just keeping you to your promises – as simple as listening to a song that truly was quite pretty wasn't worth the argument. So he sat and harkened the song, perceiving each lyric in his own way (most people weren't likely to have the same interpretations, but most people were, then again, not as broad minded as Harry) and soon enough determining the meaning of each different song.

* * *

Harry's pale fist was soon rubbing his eye and he realized he'd fallen asleep. He woke up in Hermione's empty room, the earbuds still in, a different title blasting his ear. He didn't have the energy to get up or even sit up, for that matter, so he just closed his eyes again and drift off once more, this time his head against the pillows and aware of the fact that he would soon be sleeping. It kind of scared Harry, not being able to hear anything going on around him, but at the same time he loved it.

_And in this sea that's painted black_

_Creatures lurk below the deck_

_But you're a king and I'm a lionheart_

_A lionheart, a lionheart..._

She was _queen_ and he was the lionheart, brave as they come. She was graceful, beautiful, strong. He was courageous but falling apart. Maybe she could lend him a couple spare parts, piece him back together slowly, surely, steadily.


	2. cigarettes, cigars, and irritation

.

**cigarettes, cigars, and irritation**

"Harry? Harry! Wake up!"

The first thing Harry James Potter saw when he stirred that morning was a pair of lovely brown eyes accompanied by a too lovely rest of face. Rather, it was beautiful once he put his glasses on so he could actually _see_ (Hermione just looked like a blur without them; everything did. Multicolored blurs).

"Hermione! What's it? What'd I do?" Harry mumbled back sleepily. He reached for the wire 't was somewhat firmly wrapped around his neck. He was untangling the wire from his collar, making sure it wasn't still encircling his décolletage and choking him to death. As soon as he finished this practice, she replied.

"Harry, you're in my bed. You fell asleep."

"What? Oh," Harry said. "Yeah, while I was listening to that music."

Harry wasn't a dull person, and he'd traced the cable to the small MP3 player Hermione owned. He wondered how she had gotten it to work in the Burrow. He asked his question.

"How'd you get this to work here? Don't you need _intrenete?" _

Hermione held Harry's gaze for a moment before breaking into giggles. She was busting at the seams with soft laughter, and Harry stared at her while she chuckled.

"What? Aren't I right, though?"

"It's not _intrenete… _It's _internet_. And I thought it was funny when Ron did it…" She responded, and then started laughing again.

Harry let on a small smile. His mispronunciation _was_ quite funny, he supposed.

"I'm going to go have a smoke, 'Mione. I'll be back," declared Harry as he rolled out of bed.

"You better not smoke in the house! You know Mrs. Weasley will have your head. And as will I. You know that'll kill you, don't you? Your lungs will give out… Lung cancer, skin cance–"

"I thought your parents were dentists, not doctors," he said coolly, "And I _know_ all of that. Will you quit reminding me to stop? I'm not going to. Sorry."

"But it's so bad for you! Why did you even start? I think–" Hermione started, but was interrupted once again.

"Let me let you in on a secret I've never told anyone. When I first started smoking, I smoked to die. Death. Dying. Wonderful, I didn't care. I'd fulfilled my purpose. I didn't need to be here anymore. I'm going to go and have my smoke now. I am addicted to cigarettes and there is nothing either of us can do. A secret for a cigarette, alright? I'm gonna go now. Oh! And I like the smell."

He left without another word. The words had rolled off his tongue with ease, but Harry had had difficulty getting them to stop sticking to his throat. He didn't like to acknowledge it now, but it was the truth. Then, he didn't really care whether he continued to subsist or died. He'd fulfilled his purpose. Harry's reflection on that dark era (that he was candidly still going through) after the war was disrupted by the ginger-headed Ron, asking:

"Harry! Where are you going?"

He was so close to the door, so agonizingly close. His body ached for the nicotine. He'd just woken up and he needed it. He adjusted his glasses quickly (they had been slanting slightly) and replied, "Just going outside for a smoke, Ron."

"Oh, yeah, okay. Sounds good," Ronald said back. His eyes were glassed over like they always seemed to be nowadays and his voice had that new faraway sounding, dreamy quality, sort of like Luna. Ron was still in a state of daze. He may well still stumble around. May well still talk and wake up in the morning (mourning Lavender) and run a comb through his red locks, a toothbrush over his teeth. He had a small idea of what was going on around him. Ron was functioning, just like the rest of them, except… He was happy (completely unlike Harry). A vague smile would appear on his face all the time. He really was happy, just… confused, if you will.

Harry nodded his head and marched past Ron, at last departing through the door and leaning up against the tree. Dead match in one hand, lit cig in the other, he inhaled. Exhaled. Inhaled. Exhaled. Took in some clean air and repeated the process.

"Ah. Nothing that makes me happier than watching my best friend rotting his lungs…"

It was a sarcastic Hermione. Harry took two additional thin, white sticks along with a cigar and lit them all. He fingered each of them for a moment and stuck them all in his mouth alongside the first simple cigarette. Hermione looked at him disgusted and went back into the house.

"AND SINCE WHEN DO YOU SMOKE DUMBASS CIGARS, TOO?" She screamed as she strode toward the petite Burrow.

"Since now!" Harry shouted back.

"YOU'RE SO BLOODY DENSE SOMETIMES!"

He didn't even fully _understand!_ He'd been smoking for what, three months now? Why did she decide to get cross with him about it all of a sudden?

On the route back to the room he shared with Ron, Harry overheard a soft, acoustic tune severing through Hermione's door.

"_If you're still breathing, you're the lucky ones… 'Cause most of us are heaving through corrupted lungs. Setting fire to our insides for fun…." _

He suddenly felt sort of bad. His annoyance at her for being so presently persistent about his slowly blackening lungs melted. She just didn't want him to get cancer or whatever. It's not like cigarettes were insanely deadly, though… The annoyance came back with this thought, but the quantity of irritation was much lesser than it had been.

**Author's Note: Okay. So I have no idea what happened to this chapter, but I think I'm going somewhere with it. I plan for this to have about… I don't know, seventeen chapters? I just picked a random number, but it most likely will take me awhile to complete and the chapter count will be under twenty. Anyhow, I've been trying to write a lot simpler in fanfiction than I normally do with my non-fanfic works as well as use less commas because I normally overuse them. I think I'm doing it? Anyways, thank you so much if you read this!**

**Ophelie xx**


	3. the intoxicated twin and injured hero

**Ophelie's Notes: I figured I'd just go ahead and put this at the front of the chapter. First of all: George would obviously be angry with Harry and blame him for Fred's death to some extent, because when something hurts that bad, blame will be placed. **

**Second: Reviews are love! Please review, I'm dying to know what y'all thought of this. **

**Third: I made some edits to this chapter and reposted it, so I'm sorry if I've spammed your inboxes...  
**

**the intoxicated twin and injured hero**

Harry was slumped against the wall. Ron was lying on the floor. That is how it went; Harry got the wall, Ron got the floor. Remus, Nymphadora (Harry knew she'd be cross with him for calling her that… He always did. In his head, at least), Sirius, Lavender… They all had the ceiling (well, they actually went much further up than just their ceiling… higher than the skies). And sometimes, at no earlier than twelve in the morning but frequently later, Hermione would come in with tear tracks on her cheeks and flop herself onto either Harry or Ron's bed (so she got the beds) and cry softly or stare dazedly at the scar on her arm. _Mudblood._ Such an ugly word it was. Ron coughed loudly and stole a glimpse at Harry, who was taking a puff from one of his few stubby cigars. He knew Harry preferred his cigarettes, but Ron liked the smell that the cigars had much better.

The ginger (randomly) closed his eyes, plus furthermore smiled. His freckled cheeks looked as if they were glued to his eyes, he smiled so big. Ron was not so much trapped in his own mind, little world, as he was struggling to stay inside it at times. So much has been said before, but it must be said again: Ronald is happy. His so called "mind" – could it really be called a mind if there was no state of mind? If all it was, was hit and miss thoughts of a dead girl? He'd never thought he'd be so affected by her death. But in a way, it was good that she was always on his "mind" (again with that term? Didn't we establish that he doesn't have a mind? That all he's got are hazy memories flashing a hollow head?) because if not, other things would occupy him. Mum, so upset about Fred. _Fred. _Fred was always in the back of his mind. He couldn't think about it. And then there was George, who was a completely different wreck altogether. George was half alive. George was the equivalent of Harry, if not worse: withering, fading, _dying_ on the inside. Can't think about George or Fred or Mum. Or Harry. He'd never forget – No. You can coexist with them all, but not think about them, because they will depress you. A not unexpected hasty knock on the bedroom door broke up Ron's being (thoughts, you could call them. The first actual thoughts he'd had in a long time. The restoration of his "mind" was still out of the question, but this was a step towards better sanity?) Harry strode over to the door and opened it, and there was Hermione. Their system continued to work. The three sat there (metaphorically? A fraction laid down, one usually stood until he could not stand anymore and collapsed) in fragile, beauteous silence. A drunken laugh broke the quiet (it was fragile, it had been said. _Fragile_. They were all fragile in themselves and not just in the still that had hung in the room, their hearts made of the most vulnerable, easily breakable glass).

"Hermione," Harry groaned after Hermione mumbled a few random things.

"I'm so fricking drunk," she said as she tilted her head back and laughed.

"Ron, she's never been... drunk before. Not with us, at least. What're we gonna do with her? She'll wake the house."

Hermione laughed once more. It was barely even audible to Ron, his ears clogged with worry. George had apparated back to his home so many times, booze on his breath and sticky with sweat. They didn't even have any alcohol at the Burrow!

"Ron!" George laughed at he swung the door open. "How are you, Ronnie?"

"George! Give me the bottle…" Ron replied, glaring at the translucent shape in George's hand.

"What bottle?" George raised both hands in the air as if to say, _"I'm innocent!" _He dropped the bottle in the process. The ginger twin stumbled backwards, but his intoxicated smile turned to a sneer of revulsion when he realized Harry was there.

"You!" He shouted, "You killed my b-brother!"

Harry's eyes emerald eyes widened and took a sudden glassy appearance.

"You let him die!"

Was it always when smashed that secrets came out? Grudges, (misplaced) anger.

"You let him die for _you,_ you _bastard!_ You can smoke all you want, but it won't kill you fast enough!_"_ He howled and then lunged at Harry. He didn't even try to move. He just let George pummel him as Hermione screamed and Ron tried to pry him off Harry.

Harry awoke still in Ron's room. But of course, he didn't _know_ this. An ache in your bones combined with the inability to see? He's not even ashamed to admit he panicked. The wave of fright ended the minute his mind caught up. George had attacked him.

"Harry?" A woman's voice whispered, and he recognized it as Hermione's immediately.

"Hi, Hermione,"

"So you're alright?"

"Yeah," Harry sighed, "I am."

_You let him die!_

He let him die.

_You let him die! _

_You have let your friends die for you… There is no greater dishonor…_

"Harry?"

"I'm here." Said he.

"Good," Said Hermione as she waltzed over and sat by Harry's side. "I made you a playlist."

"Still pushing this on me?"

"Yeah," she laughed quietly. "You need some sleep. It's calming, so I thought maybe you could try to sleep to it."

"I'll try. It worked pretty well last time. I just want to sleep and never wake up," Harry grumbled. He could see her bright eyes get a bit larger in the very dim light and tout de suite regretted what he'd said. "I didn't mean it like that, 'Mione." He said quietly. Truthfully, he _did_ mean it "like that", but if his posthaste comment upset her he'd change it in a heartbeat. Only so many people stuck by you since age eleven and help you defeat the greatest force of evil known to the Wizarding World. Especially when they stick with you in your depressed, half-alive state… It's the least you can do to not upset them or worry them (further).

"Okay."

"I'll listen to your playlist."

"Hooray," she smiled and whisper-yelled. "Now we'll talk more in the morning. Goodnight."

And she did something she had done before; she kissed him on the cheek. He liked it, but he knew it meant she really was worried for him. He stuck in the earphones she'd lent him and started to play. A mellifluous little melody filled his ears, that of acoustic guitars and a quiet man's voice. A dulcet introduction to a sad song.


End file.
